Tuesdays have become my thrifting day. Perhaps it’s tapping into the ancient hunter gatherer parts of my brain, but I’ve come to look forward to these mornings spent amidst dusty books, suspect appliances and mismatched shoes. In addition to the frugality implicit in “thrifting,” I appreciate the sense of history these items bring to my home. It also allows me to be more creative than simply placing (or clicking) an item into a shopping cart. However, I must exercise constant vigilance against the “but this could be useful if…” spiral that too easily leads to bursting bags and toppling piles.

Recently I found
:: the perfect coffee cup. I am almost as picky about the vessel my hot beverages are served in as I am the steamy cuppa itself. I sip slowly, so most mugs are too big, cooling to just above room temperature before I’ve had all of two sips. I also dislike the perfectly cylindrical mugs that you often find at cafés. They feel clunky. Often their handles are so small your finger gets stuck and you slosh coffee all over in an effort to disengage. This cup, however, is full of graceful curves and has a handle that lets my fingers wrap around it in peace. It has a chip on one side that already feels like a familiar callus on a well loved hand.
:: a 1956 edition of Winnie the Pooh that is blessedly free of Disney-ification. Instead it bears lovely bonus material by unknown (though not nameless!) budding artists.
:: a handmade quilt. I am still in awe of this beguiling hodgepodge of fabric. The quilt speaks of frugality and necessity rather than art. The backing is made of old cloth Domino sugar bags. I already own a few quilts, all made by precious members of my family. They are dotted with familiar fabrics that have stories all their own. I sense the same weight of family history in this quilt. But it sends sparks through my imagination, wondering what the stories are. There is no rhyme or reason to the fabric selection– perhaps simply what was on hand when an extra layer was needed by a body. The baby girl pink cozies up to flamboyant 70′s plaid and starry eyed brown check. Who was the baby girl? Did someone proudly wear that plaid, or were they embarrassed by the old fashioned fabric? When I happened to worry out loud that it might eventually fall apart if used and therefore washed too much, a friend reminded me that the beauty of patchwork quilts is that they can be patched. Of course!